we meet to walk

young old boys

from junior school

back together for

our final term, we

laugh until it hurts

and sometimes if

dust gets in our eyes

make nought of it,

we kids used to roam

these pits all day,

now they’re called

country parks with

safe gravel paths

and pictorial signs

although the newts

and butterflies have

long gone for a burton,

we talk heart valves

pacemakers hips

and knees, girlfriends

villains fought and

boy scout pranks,

winsome wrinkled

vacant smiles clear

the distant mists

as in Brigadoon, 

when it's time, the adieu

handshakes and embraces

grip a little tighter, for longer

each hoping we’ll hear

the next school bell,

old young boys back

again for one last jape

 

© Graham R Sherwood 11/24

* young old boy, a local expression for son